


Strawberry Fields Forever

by Severely_Lupine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Gen, post-DH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:53:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severely_Lupine/pseuds/Severely_Lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione has a very odd discussion with someone she'd never thought to talk to before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Fields Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [barbossabethfan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=barbossabethfan).



The man was old even by wizarding standards, but something about him left Hermione convinced that he'd been quite handsome once. 

It was the eyes, she decided.  His warm brown eyes must have charmed more than one pretty girl into his bed, back in the day.

But today, there was something wrong with them.  They didn't focus properly when he looked at anything.

"There you are, my dear," he said, as he always did, handing her the basket.  "Fresh from the vine."

She took it from him and examined its contents.  She had a weakness for strawberries, especially fresh ones, and this strange roadside cart sold the best strawberries she'd ever tasted.

Ordinarily, she would just take her purchase and bid him farewell, but today she asked, "Is something the matter?"

He looked up from his work, appearing surprised anyone had bothered to say more than necessary to him.

"What do you mean, young lady?"

"You look . . . sad."

He studied the berries in his cart.  "Is that what I am?"

"Is there . . . anything I can do?"

He laughed once, bitterly, and it seemed a great effort.  "Not unless you can bring back the dead."

She shifted her feet awkwardly, trying to decide if she'd gotten herself into more than she was prepared to deal with at the moment.

The old man dropped onto a stool, the tension draining from him.  "Though I suppose it's better off this way," he mumbled.  Then he looked at her and said more clearly, "My son died a year ago today."

Hermione let out a small gasp at the weight of his pronouncement, secretly wishing she'd just left him alone.  "I'm sorry to hear that.  Were you two quite close?"

Another laugh.  "I wouldn't say that.  I hadn't seen him in fifty-six years.  Not since he tried to kill me—and thought he succeeded."

"Oh."  Hermione was rapidly running out of things to say.

"I would have died, too," the man went on, sounding almost remorseful, like he wished he _had_ died.  "But my—my _wife_ . . . She did something to me . . ."

Hermione leaned forward unconsciously.  This tale had suddenly taken a turn for the fascinating.

When the man didn't continue, she prompted, "What did she do?"

"I don't know," he said hopelessly.  "If I knew, I'd reverse it—or rather, find someone who could.  I'm sure I haven't the power myself.  But she . . . yes, somehow, I think, in her own twisted way, she loved me very much.  Far too much . . . to meddle with such ungodly . . . "  He trailed off again, lost in his own thoughts.  Then, so quietly she had to strain to hear him, he whispered in a pleading tone, "I just want to rest, so very badly."

"Maybe I can help," Hermione offered. 

The man shook his head hopelessly.  "A nice young lady like yourself has no business getting involved with the sort of things my wife went on with.  I'm just glad that, whatever it was she did, my son never found out."

He shook his head and stood up, as if waking from some kind of stupor.  "Look at me, going on about my problems, and here you were just being polite.  You just go on with your day.  I'll be here when you want more berries."

Hermione smiled, intrigued by the man's ramblings, but she really did need to get home. 

"Thank you.  They really are the best strawberries I've ever had," she said, and he smiled and nodded, accepting the compliment.  "It was nice to talk to you, Mr . . . ?"

"Riddle," he said, shaking her hand.  "But I haven't stood on ceremony for a very long time, dear.  Call me Tom."


End file.
